A Red Rose Christmas Story
by Riene
Summary: Set nine years after my Red Rose story, Erik and Christine celebrate the holidays. Much sweetness and romance. Merry Christmas, everyone!


**Author's Note—Be warned--I'm afraid there is no plot here, no angst, no confrontation.  This is meant only as a simple, sweet short story.  This was written months ago, and has been posted out on my website for some time.  It is a scene set during Christmas, nine years after the end of my _Red Rose novel, and was written for those of you who have written to ask what ever became of my Erik and Christine._**

In actuality, this is really meant as a story to connect _Red Rose_ with _To Come Out of the Darkness_, a sequel I am still writing.  Someday it will be complete, and I will post it here as well.  I've not forgotten _Second Chance…the real world and an absent muse are interfering with my writing._

Ah, yes, before I forget—**The Usual Disclaimer.  Sadly, the characters of Erik and Christine are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of Gaston Leroux, and to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and the RUG.  Only the plot, setting, and others character are mine.  Alas, I make no profit from this endeavor; the only reward I receive is the joy of creation and the occasional review.  The errors, unfortunately, are mine.**

Do I think this would really have happened?  No, but it was fun to write!  Please read, and review if you wish.  **Merry Christmas, everyone!**

**A Christmas to Remember**

Copyright 2003 by Riene

He leaned forward slightly and inclined his head, listening critically to the pure soprano voice as it rose above the others in the choir, as she stepped forward and sang the final solo of the evening.  The deep blue gown of heavy satin set off her milk-white shoulders and throat, matching her eyes.  As always, she turned slightly toward him, lifting her voice toward Heaven, and toward the one she had sung for since her first gala triumph, these many years ago.  Christine's voice soared upward effortlessly and he nodded once, satisfied, then leaned back again into the shadows of the limestone columns near his pew.

It was not often that Erik came to the old stone church.  When asked, Father Martin would visit their home.  Tonight was especially important to her, and Erik had acceded to his wife's request.  The service was sparsely attended during most Sundays, but this was the midnight mass of the Christmas Eve service and the pews below were filled with worshippers.

The music over, Erik slipped quietly from the upper level alcove where he had sat nearly motionless for the last two hours.  Whatever this small private balcony had been in the past, most likely for the wealthiest patrons, or perhaps for the parishioners who could not mingle with the congregation below, it served him ideally as the one place in this sanctuary he could be guaranteed privacy.  He paused in the doorway, reaching up to assure himself that the thin leather mask was still in its proper position, then walked quickly, quietly down the curving staircase and out a side door, and crossed the silent, still courtyard.  The shock of cold nearly took away his breath and Erik paused, looking upward into the jet-black sky at the countless jewels of stars hanging overhead, offering a silent prayer of gratitude and wonder that his life had turned the way it had.

Frost rimed the dried blades of grass and crunched softly underfoot as Erik walked along the low stone wall that edged the boundaries of church land.  In the distance, he could hear the tapping of horses' hooves, sharply defined in the still night air.  Charles would be coming with the carriage soon, to take them home.

He withdrew into the shadows of the carriage, waiting patiently.  From the opened doorway of the church, golden light spilled out onto the glimmering frost of the stone terrace as people emerged, talking and laughing.  The simple church bells began their peal to proclaim Christmas Day had arrived.  

Christine stepped out into the courtyard, smiling and accepting the compliments called cheerfully to her, returning hugs and kisses, promising visits soon, once the holidays were past.  The horses snorted and stamped, chafing their bits, great clouds of breath hanging in the frosty air, and she turned, gathering the fur collar of her coat more tightly around her throat and walked rapidly toward them.  Tender-hearted, his wife could not bear the thought of leaving the matched pair of grays standing in the cold.

Erik extended a gloved hand and helped Christine up into the carriage.  She settled beside him and he pulled her close, brushing his scarred lips across her forehead.

"The Angels smiled with joy tonight," he told her, thumping on the roof to signal the coachman.  The carriage gave a slight lurch and swayed as it began the journey home, and Christine snuggled closer, a glow of clear carnation coloring flushing her skin.

"You always say such foolish things," she murmured, pleased.

He pretended to give this matter thought for a moment, and then nodded gravely.  "Only when it is true," and was rewarded by her laughter.

Christine turned toward her husband, her gloved hand reaching up to brush back his dark hair.  "If the Angels were pleased with my performance tonight, it is only because I sang for the angel who taught me," she smiled.

For a moment, a faint frown drew a line between his eyes.

"_Mon ange, do you have regrets leaving the Opera?"  _

"No, I'm where I've always wanted to be—with you.  I sing often enough in the church choir, my love," she said softly.  "The Opera will always hold a special place in my heart, and sometimes," she admitted, "I do miss it.  But I would not trade what I have now for all the acclaim and applause of Paris."

Wordlessly, he drew her to him again.  "I still cannot believe how fortune smiled on me at last, and brought to me an angel.  I love you so, Christine," he whispered against her hair.

They entered the small chateau together, and he locked the heavy doors behind them.  Christine paused in the foyer to draw the gloves from her hands and to slip off the shining brown furs.  From the back of the house Liesl emerged, taking Erik's heavy black wool coat and gloves from his hands.

"The children are abed, Mme. de Becque, though Rose demanded you come see her before you went to sleep.  She wants to know how the service was."

Rose's mother smiled.  "Is she still angry I would not let her attend?"

Amusement darkened Liesl's hazel eyes.  "Oh yes indeed.  I caught her and that scamp Stefan trying to convince my Charles he should drive them to the service."

Christine sighed, knowing full well the twins' powers of persuasion.  "How did he convince them otherwise?"

"That it would be bad for the horses, of course, to make that many trips in the chill air of night!" Liesl smiled.  "That girl would argue with a stone, but it's Stefan who'll be the death of me, with his quiet ways."

"He comes by it honestly," Erik's deep voice said dryly.  "I'll have a word with him again tomorrow."  He walked to the double doors of the salon.  

"The fire is laid, sir, you need only light it," Liesl called after him, and he acknowledged her comment with a nod.  

"I'll check on the children, Erik, and then join you," Christine said with a smile, turning to mount the stairs leading to the balcony overhead.

Erik knelt before the hearth, touching a lucifer to the dry paper and kindling, blowing on the hot crackling little flames.  Sparks rose up from the tender, and the fire rapidly caught.  He rose and extracted a tight twist of paper from the jar on the hearth, touching it to the flames and quickly lighting the candles atop the carved wooden mantle.  It was their tradition, begun in their first home back in Paris, that on Christmas night the only illumination in the room be the soft warm glow of candlelight, reminiscent of the underground home at the Opera, a lifetime ago.

Brightly wrapped and beribboned packages were piled in careless glory on and around the table in the corner, half-hidden under the sweep of the heavy dark green moiré cloth.  Tomorrow this room would be filled with the warmth and laughter of family and old friends; some come from Paris, others from Beauvais, from the coast.  Tonight, however, was theirs alone.  Like the candles, this too was a tradition begun in Paris, when they would cuddle before the fire and exchange presents, one item for each of them, private gifts to be opened with only each other.

He reached into the pile of gifts and lifted a small box, tucking it into his jacket pocket carefully, anticipating the look on her face when she beheld this year's offering.  It had started as a whim, to each year bring her a new piece of jewelry, and he never tired of seeing the pleasure on her face as she lifted each new piece into the light for the first time.

Christine opened the door to the nursery slowly, quietly, and walked across the room to bend over the crib.  Little Charles lay curled on his side, a chubby hand grasping a battered toy steam engine.  With a smile, Christine pulled it away and placed it carefully on the small table near the crib.  Already he showed signs of fascination with machinery of any sort, a fascination his father encouraged by purchasing outlandish toys he could not possibly play with for years to come.  At her laughing protests, Erik had only raised an eyebrow.  

"Nonsense, my dear, he will become an engineer.  I merely intend to help him on that path."  Shaking her head with a rueful smile, Christine bent and placed a kiss on her son's flushed cheek, and brushed a hand over his cobweb soft dark curls.

"Goodnight, little one," she murmured.

In the small white bed in the other corner, four year old Meg was snuggled into the blankets, smiling happily even in her sleep, with one arm around her favorite stuffed animal, a caramel-brown pony.  She was a sunny, even-tempered child, loving and generous, and softhearted Liesl could deny her nothing.  Christine tucked a stay tendril of smooth waving hair behind her daughter's ear and kissed her forehead.  "Goodnight, sweetness."

Down the hall in a room of his own, Stefan slept in an untidy sprawl across the bed, his dark hair tousled, frowning slightly in his sleep.  He was a quiet, sensitive boy, already capable of playing his father's grand piano, and lately developing an interest in the violin.  Downstairs in the salon, a ¾ size instrument awaited him on Christmas morning.  Passionate and proud in his nature, he was exactly as she imagined her husband as a young man might have been.  Pulling the blankets up about his shoulders, Christine whispered, "Good night, my son, pleasant dreams of Christmas fill your heart tonight," and kissed him as well.

Her final destination was the corner room, where a faint wavering light escaped from the not-quite-closed door.  The lone candle was guttering now, melted down into a pool of wax on the table beside another white bed.  Christine shook her head in exasperation.  This was clearly a purloined candle, and Rose had obviously meant to stay awake, determined to demand a review of the night's events.  She had slumped sideways across the pillows, overcome by the lateness of the hour.  Her mother eased her willful daughter down onto the sheets, snuggling the coverlet up about her neck. 

"Mama?" murmured a sleepy voice.

"Yes, yes, I am back.  Now sleep, my own.  Tomorrow I will tell you all about it," she soothed.

Straight black brows drew together in a frown.  "But Mama….did they like your music?"

"Yes, little one.  And Papa came to hear me."

"I'm glad…..g'night…" she murmured, drifting off again.

Christine bent and kissed her daughter's rosy cheek.  "Goodnight, my eldest angel."

            "They are asleep?" Erik inquired as Christine entered the salon and walked toward him.  He poured them each a half-glass of rich burgundy wine from the decanter on the sideboard and handed one to her.  She sipped it, smiling.

"Yes, and I met Liesl in the hallway.  She and Charles are retiring as well.  They've a busy day tomorrow."

"As do we all," he smiled, enclosing her into the warm comfort of his embrace.  Christine smiled up at her beloved husband, still elegant in his evening dress, and pressed her hands to his heart, as he brushed his lips across her temple.  His black hair was edged with silver now, but his body was still hard, long, and lean, and she doubted it would ever change much.  Though six years had passed since they left Paris and the world of the Opera, the nine years of their marriage had only deepened their feelings for one another. 

They settled on the old Persian rug in front of the fireplace, leaning against the settee.  With a sigh, Christine rubbed her cheek lovingly against Erik's shoulder and he pulled her close.  For many long minutes they sat close together, watching the flames and sipping their wine, with no need of conversation.

Erik looked down into the upturned face of the woman he loved more than life itself.  Her face was untouched by time, still as enchantingly lovely as when he had first beheld her in the opera house, all those years ago.  And now she was here with him, in this house that he had designed for them, far from Paris in this valley.  If possible, he loved her even more deeply with each passing day.

After several minutes, Christine gave her husband a quick hug and moved to rummage through the pile of gifts, hearing his deep, amused chuckle at her show of being unable to locate his present.  There, toward the back of the table, beside his annual bottle of fine Armagnac, was heavy, rectangular box, large enough to making lifting it awkward.  Erik rose to his feet and took it easily from her, setting the crate down to the floor.  Christine's eyes were dancing with excitement.

"Open it, Erik, it's for you!" she said impatiently, smiling with delight.

"I had gathered that," he said dryly, and removed the rustling tissue paper from around it.  A wooden container was revealed, and with a curious sidelong look, Erik began to pry the nails from the lid.  Inside the crate, nestled in layers of padding, lay a polished wooden square, with intricate dials and round brass-banded, glass lenses.  He plucked a sheet of paper from the box and read aloud, _"Congratulations on your purchase of a __Waterbury__ Camera.  Our instruments are made of mahogany, are well polished, have rubber bellows, a folding platform, a patent latch for making the bed rigid instantaneously, and a single swing, vertical shifting front.  They are as light and compact as substantial cameras can be constructed."_

He turned to her, genuinely surprised.  "I've read about these, that smaller versions were available, but I never thought to see one."

"It came from America," his smiling wife explained.  "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes, very much so," he replied absently, turning the device slowly in his graceful hands, long elegant fingers probing, testing the delicate mechanism, flexing the bellows.  "Thank you, _mon__ coeur.  I will have to try this tomorrow."  He set it carefully down, and leaned forward to kiss her.  "You surprise me every year, with your inventive ideas.  And now…"_

            Casually, Erik reached into his pocket and removed a small flat rectangular package, handing it to her.  "_Joyeux Noël, my love."  With mock solemnity, Christine held the box and pretended to shake it, turning it to observe it from all angles.  _

"Now what might this possibly be?" she wondered aloud, her eyes sparkling.

Erik's dark eyes lit with amusement.  "Open it and see."

She carefully removed the crackling green paper to reveal a velvet covered box, and raised smiling eyes to his.  "Another jewelry box, Erik?  You'll have to take me somewhere now, where I can show this off."  Christine lifted the lid and gasped.  Firelight caught on a pendant of diamond and sapphire, which hung from a woven golden chain, drawing deep sparks from the stones.

She raised stunned eyes to his.  "You spoil me too much, my husband.  This is beautiful."

Erik shook his head negligently.  "Nonsense.  What is the point of giving a gift, if it not appreciated?  Give it to me; I want to see it on you."

She handed him the box and turned, lifting her hair.  Erik's long hands deftly fastened the clasp, settling the stone into the hollow of her throat.  Christine shivered as his cool fingers brushed her neck and throat, her collarbones, arousing her with a delicate brush of his hands, and look from his intense dark eyes.  "How do you still do that, after all these years, how do you still have the power to make me want you with just a single touch, a single look?" she murmured.

Amusement deepened the love in his eyes.  "I have never understood that," he admitted, "but I see no reason to tempt the fates by questioning."

And he pulled her close as the first icy flakes of snow began to softly fall.

**_Acknowledgement__--Thanks to the Antique and Classic Cameras website, for the information about cameras of the late 1800s.  I wanted Christine to give Erik a phonograph….but they haven't been invented yet…._**


End file.
